Abandoned
by Irving Forrest
Summary: "No, mate," said the weasel, shaking his head. "That was Redwall Abbey. Now, it's just a big, abandoned treasure trove. And we're goin' in to stake out a piece for our selves." You might want to be familiar with the events of Salamandastron, or you may not enjoy this.


**Abandoned…**

A cold, wild winter wind blew through Mossflower Woods. The trees were bare and skeletal, except for the evergreen trees, which were exceptionally green against the backdrop of pure white snow and bleak grey sky. A weasel and a rat, both dressed in ragged traveler's cloaks, stomped their way through the snow in heavy black boots. Each one was carrying a satchel on their belt and an empty sack on their shoulder.

"Aye, can't tolerate much more of this cold, m-mate," the gaunt rat said with a shiver. He pulled his cloak tightly around himself, although it was full of holes. "Where's this place at, Wes? Are we getting close?"

The weasel licked his chapped lips before responding. "Yeah, Bingo, I think that we are. At least, that's what the map said."

"How long ago was that?"

"I took a look just this morning," said the weasel, straining to be heard over the dirge. "We weren't too far away from it. I thought that we'd make it by midmorning, but I didn't count on this wind. It's slowin' us down a bunch."

The weasel produced a glass bottle with a little amber liquid resting at the bottom.

"We're down to the last of our whiskey," Wes said somewhat dejectedly. He took a swig and then offered the bottle to the rat. "Here, down the rest of that. It'll keep you warm. Should help you get where we're goin'."

The rat took the bottle gratefully and slurped the burning liquid as though it were water. He licked clean the rim of the bottle and then tossed it into the woods. A muffled smash indicated that it had broken apart somewhere along the path. "Much obliged to you, mate," he said. "I think that I'm feeling a might bit better, but that liquor's goin' to my head pretty quick."

The weasel turned his squinting grey eyes onto his companion as they staggered along. "What makes you say that?"

"Cause I swear I see a big, stone tower right through that clump of evergreens." Bingo pointed an exposed claw towards an obelisk-like structure peaking through the trees.

"That ain't you're imagination, mate!" cried the weasel as he began to trot through the fallen snow as fast as he could go while battling against the wind. The rat followed closely behind, using his mate's considerable width as a windbreaker.

They came to a crest on a hill in the middle of a thin grove of evergreens that overlooked a tiny valley of bare trees. Both stood dumbfounded for a moment by the sight that greeted them.

Wes clapped his mate on the back and laughed aloud. "There she is, matey! Ever see so magnificent a sight?"

Bingo could honestly say that he hadn't. What stood before him was a sprawling complex made out of red stones, cut and laid by the paws of a hundred artisans. Four big walls separated the interior structure, which was something akin to a castle, from the outskirts of Mossflower Woods. Even from a distance, the old habitation had an uncanny ability to impress.

"So that's Redwall Abbey," mused the rat. He put a contemplative claw to his black lips as he thought about the ancient complex.

"No, mate," said the weasel, shaking his head. "That _was_ Redwall Abbey. Now, it's just a big, abandoned treasure trove. And we're goin' in to stake out a piece for our selves."

The Abbey's big wooden gates had withstood the test of time well, though age and the elements had obviously taken their toll on the wood, plastering it with green moss and speckling it with patches of black mold.

Wes put on a heavy pair of leather gloves. "Hand me your pry bar," he demanded of the rat.

Bingo passed the curved metal rod to the weasel. "Hey, Wes, I got ta' ask you something about this place."

The weasel acknowledged the rat, but didn't look up from his work. He'd stuck the pry bar into a gap in the splintering wood and began to wedge it in. "What's up?"

"This place, it's been abandoned for – well, I don't know – a hundred seasons?"

"Seventy seven, actually" said the weasel as he worked. "You know that a squirrel, one of the last beasts that ever lived here, died just a little while back? He was something like thirteen when the order of mice that built this place up n' left."

"Yeah, well, in all that time, why hasn't somebeast else come along and stripped this place."

"I don't know. Could be a couple of reasons, but I think it's because this place was so sacred to Woodlanders. Most beasts, I guess, just respect that. Most Woodland types, anyhow." Wes then put his footpaw against the wood and began to pull the pry bar towards his chest with both paws. His straining was rewarded with a loud snap, as a hunk of wood came out of the door, leaving a gaping hole just big enough for the two scavengers to fit through. "Shall we?"

The two vermin found themselves in a scene of abundance perverted by negligence and ravaged by time. A once sprawling and stately orchard was now overgrown with weeds, brambles, and dead, wiry trees. Flower beds and herb gardens that were at sometime or other meticulously manicured were so overgrown with wild grass that peeked through the snow that the stones that originally bordered them could hardly be seen. There was a frozen lake that was green with overgrown algae that grew beneath its icy surface, and a few dead fish were trapped in the frost.

The building itself was in marvelously good condition from a structural point of view, but aesthetically eerie. Green moss, bits of grass, cracked mortar, and depressing grey stones that were once rosy and cheerful were all reminders that this place, no matter how grand, was a tomb.

Bingo shuddered and crossed himself with a protective gesture. "Good spirits, Wes, this place puts me right on edge, it does. I've got a bad feeling boiling away in the pit of my stomach."

The weasel smiled and chuckled at his friend's superstitious nature. "You're just a bit nervous, mate. But don't worry. We won't be here too long. How about you and I go inside and set ourselves up someplace. We'll stick close, ok? Say, a place this big probably would a' brewed its own spirits. An' you know what they say about spirits, eh?"

The rat's brown eyes became quite animated. "That they only get better with age!"

Both vermin stuck close together while conducting a preliminary search of the Abbey. The inside was dark and bleak, and the big cobwebs that hung down from the high rafters were stirred by cold drafts of air that broke the intense silence.

The scavengers stuck to the first floor for now, and while they searched, snow began to fall outside and rest on the windowsills. In some places, the snow came right through the windows because there wasn't any glass. It wasn't so bad at first, but before long it began to come down heavier and heavier. It appeared that they'd be staying a bit longer than they thought. If the snow got too bad, they wouldn't be able to haul away their loot – whatever loot they might find.

Bingo and Wes looked upon a room with rows and rows of beds in it. Each one was a bit messy, as though the owners got up and knew that they weren't coming back.

Bingo the rat sat down on the edge of one of the beds. "Why'd they go an' leave? This order of Woodlanders, that is."

"I can't really say. I don't think that anybeast really knows. I mean, I guess that squirrel that died might've, but I can't say for sure. He never spoke on the subject, from what I heard," said the weasel as he combed through the cabinets. "Strange…"

"What is?" asked the rat, getting up and walking over to the weasel.

"I think that we're in some kind of clinic, but they don't have any herbs or anything. They didn't leave behind even a pinch! No creatures are that meticulous. At least, none that I can think of," he said with a shrug. "Hey mate, wipe down your bottom, it's all dusty."

Bingo looked down. The bottom of his cloak was covered in a very thick layer of dust from where he sat down on the edge of the bed. He walked over to hit while patting his cloak off. "Funny," he said. "I thought these blankets were light blue, but that's just dust. They're really green."

"Well grab a couple and we can air them out someplace. I don't really want to sleep in here, amongst all these empty beds…"

Both creatures soon found themselves in the kitchens, wondering if there were any preserved foods they could immediately use. Their supplies, whilst not dangerously low, weren't as numerous as they might've liked them to be.

Bingo's voice echoed off of the walls as he spoke. "They must've cooked for more than twenty score creatures in here! This place is enormous!"

Wes hefted an old kitchen knife that was covered in dust and cobwebs. He ran his thumb over the blade, revealing the gleaming iron beneath. "There's got to be at least a quarter inch of dust on everything in this place," he said. "We're goin' to really have to dig to find some salvageable stuff in here, I'm guessing." The weasel then noticed a great number of black stains on the walls, in the cupboards, and on the tables. "There must've been a lot of food in here when they left for it to have left all of these stains as it all rotted away. Why not take it? They took the herbs."

Bingo was too busy to hear his mate, however. He was sniffing the air like a creature with a purpose. "Ooooh! Can you smell that, mate! It smells like sweets and cheese and good, hot vegetables and…so many things!"

Wes sniffed the air. Bingo was right. The smells of delicious, bygone meals were leached into the very walls, a sensorary ghost of the abbey's past.

Out in the dining area, which was a huge, high flung place with a number of long tables, the two found something that cast a veritable trance on them. Both looked up in awe with their mouths wide open, their quest for loot momentarily forgotten.

"Who do you suppose 'e is?" Bingo asked.

"I dunno mate, but I guess that I might ask: who do you suppose he was?"

Both were referring to the intricately woven mouse that was displayed on a grand tapestry that hung from the wall in the great dining area. A lot of it was rotted away, and much of it was covered in black mold, but the mouse, all clad in shining armor, wielding a great, glimmering sword, was still quite visible. "I don't suppose that it's worth very much, though, given its condition. Let's just leave it be." The weasel smirked. "I guess now he's just the ghost of a memory, haunting this abbey with his presence.

Bingo shuddered at the analogy and glanced nervously all around. It was gloomier than before.

"It's getting dark," the rat observed.

"Aye," the weasel agreed, nodding his head, full of plans and speculations, understandingly. "We'll set ourselves up in that big room with the fireplace for tonight. Grab the stuff and let's head down there."

The weasel and the rat were supremely comfortable in what was once Cavern Hole. Bingo was snuggled up in two blankets and nestled into an ancient, cushioned armchair. With the warm fire, fed by broken furniture, groaning before him, the Rat was very contented. Wes, however, was sitting on the stone hearth, warming himself and watching their cloaks and boots as they dried off. He was writing in the back of an old book he found, taking notes on what he'd seen, mumbling to himself.

"There's about two hundred blankets, and those sell for quite a good sum now n' days, but I ought to hold out for silver and gold if there's any to be found. Nothing in the kitchen's any good; all of it is simple, wooden garbage. I wonder if they'd have any weapons or liquor…"

"Doesn't sound too good over there…"

Wes looked up at the rat who'd just spoken through bleary eyes.

"It isn't what I had expected, though it's not too disappointing. There's still profit to be made here."

The rat sat up from his state of near slumber. "Where'd you get that book?" he asked.

"This?" Wes closed the book he'd been scrawling in and held it up. "Found it in that clinic. It's not all used up, so I can keep some notes in it."

The rat snuggled back down into his little nest of cushions and blankets. "What's it say?"

"What's it to you?"

"Well," said the rat, "you promised me spirits, but I haven't seen or smelled a single drop since we got here, so I want to hear a bit of a story instead. Helps me sleep," he said with a chuckle and a sarcastic smile.

Wes opened up the book to a random page and skimmed it over. "Looks like medical jargon. Should be tedious enough put you right to bed, then I can get some work done." The weasel cleared his throat. "Still no sign of Thrugg and Dumble today. Samkin and Arula are still gone, too. Dry ditch fever is getting worse here, and we're running low on…herbs…" The weasel was silent for a while, staring blankly at the page. Bingo was paying rapt attention now.

"Why did you stop? What's dry ditch fever?"

The weasel contemplated a moment. "It's a sickness. I stopped because…because there weren't any herbs left in the clinic area, and here it says they were running low. And that name: Samkin. It's sounds so familiar to me."

"Well, go on! Go on! Keep reading it, don't stop now!"

The weasel continued. "Brother Hollyberry has succumbed to the disease. Nobeast else knows how to brew the medicine that's been…keeping us all alive. Foremole is dead, so is Bremmum. Others are sure to follow unless we get flowers of icetor soon. Please Martin, guide Thrugg and Dumble home safely…soon…please." Wes paused and flipped the page. "This is the last page," he said before reading on. "This is Faith Spiney. Furgle and I are the last ones standing now, so I'll write this page. Thrugann has fallen unconscious, just like the others. Blossom too, Abbess Vale and my husband as well. Five more creatures have stopped breathing, and I can feel myself beginning to perspire, even as I write this. Samkin, Arula, Thrugg, Dumble: If you find this, it may be too late to do anything for us. I…"

The weasel looked up from the book. "It stops right there. There's a little line on the page, really sloppy, like this Spiney gal lost control of the quill. Like she collapsed."

Bingo looked all about himself warily, his previous enthusiasm completely quashed. "Sounds to me like they all…all died of fever in here. But if that's true, then where's all the bodies?"

"Stow that talk, will you!" Wes snapped. He hopped up from his seat and snatched the blankets off of Bingo, throwing them into the fire.

"Hey! What d'ja do that for?" the rat whined.

"Because if they all died here in bed than their blankets might be diseased!"

Bingo leapt from his seat and began to pace around nervously. "Diseased! With dry ditch fever! Mate, I won't make it through the winter if that's the case. You won't leave me here to die, will you? Please, mate, I don't wanna die here! Not here! I wanna get out! Now! Now!"

"We can't!" shouted the weasel as he proceeded to grab the rat by the shoulders and steady him. "It's too cold, we'd die of exposure. Listen, though, you're probably fine. I ain't never heard of no disease living on a blanket for seventy seven seasons. It's just better safe than sorry, eh?"

"Yeah, yeah, ok," said the rat as he began to calm down. "I think I want that drink, though. I mean, if I have to stay here tonight."

The weasel's head was swimming, and perhaps he wasn't thinking too clearly after reading some dying beasts last words. "Yeah, ok, I think I saw an entrance to some kind of cellar a ways down yonder. Let's get ourselves dressed and head down there for a nip, ok? Yeah, that sounds just about right."

Wes and Bingo lit up a couple of old oil lantern for their trip down into the cellar. Bingo was asking Wes all manner of uncomfortable questions whilst there. It wasn't the place for that, though: gloomy, quite, dark, especially cold and with all manner shadows cast onto the wall by their lanterns' light.

"What ever became of the bodies, do you think?" Bingo asked.

"I don't know, Bingo. I don't know, and I don't want to know, and I don't really want to think about it, either."

"I'm just saying," Bingo persisted, "that more than – what? Two hundred bodies? – just don't get up from bed and walk out 'n carry themselves away."

"Shut up, Bingo," Wes said peevishly as he looked around the barrels for one that he might be able to tap into.

"I don't even think there'd be enough room on the abbey's grounds to bury 'em all anyhow."

"Shut _up_, Bingo," Wes repeated through gritted teeth, calming himself slightly by continuing his search for alcohol.

"Not enough Coffins, I recon…"

Wes wheeled around and let forth his suppressed anger. "Shut up, Bingo! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up to Hellgates 'n back, damn it all!" The weasel turned moodily back to the barrels, leaving bingo quite taken aback and the walls reverberating with the remnants of his throaty bellow.

"…Sorry…"

Wes selected a nice, oak barrel that felt quite heavy. He nudged it back and forth and felt a sloshing inside. "Jack pot," he cried. "Help me out here, Bingo; I _need_ some of this right now!"

Wes and Bingo put their backs into extracting the barrel from its place on the ancient rack, straining and grunting, certain that they'd be rewarded for their efforts in due time.

"I hope that it's some kind of wine," Bingo wheezed.

"I don't care what it is so long as it helps me forget that I'm stuck here for tonight," Wes admitted.

Bingo slipped on the old, stone floor and fell to his knee, letting the barrel fall to the floor while Wes was still holding the other end. The top busted off and its contents spilled out onto the floor, a terrible smell came with the liquid. It sloshed out like watery syrup, black and rank. Both vermin held their noses and backed up considerably, holding their lanterns aloft to see what they'd loosed.

"Spoiled ale!" cried Wes in a nasally tone that was brought on by his pinching off his sinuses. "I'd recognize it anywhere."

But Bingo did not respond. His mouth was agape and he'd completely forgotten about the smell. He pointed his claw down at the barrel. Something else was sliding out – a lot of something else. It was like a mass of broken porcelain, and both creatures might have gone on to lead happy lives believing that if not for what tumbled out of the barrel and clattered to the stones, bouncing slightly: A skull.

Screams tore out of their throats almost as quickly as they tore out of the cellar and out of the Abbey, screaming all the way to the hole they'd made in the gate as they fought each other to get through it. Neither stopped until they were back in the night-blackened, snowy grove of pines from which they first saw the abbey, panting like hot, tired dogs.

Wes was the first to regain his breath. "You were right! The bodies didn't wander away, and there weren't enough coffins. They must've used the cellars as some kind of mausoleum! The barrels as coffins to hold the dead! All of them died of dry ditch fever. They never got their flowers, their cure. Something must have happened to whomever they sent for it. But you know what else Bingo?"

Bingo shook his head, shaking dangling tears down into the snow as he sobbed a broken, pitiful sob.

"The name that was so familiar, Samkin, it was the name of the squirrel who died recently, the squirrel mentioned in the journal! He must've come back from wherever he was and buried them. Redwall was never abandoned, Bingo. Redwall died! And now, it belongs to the dead…"


End file.
